


Blood Bag

by takethethirdoption



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), fury road
Genre: F/M, I'm not going to write about it, but it is there, mentioned rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethethirdoption/pseuds/takethethirdoption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.<br/>Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.<br/>Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.<br/>Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.</p>
<p>After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captured

**Author's Note:**

> This will be only based on the Fury Road Mad Max, not Road Warrior or the others. Just Reader trying to make it out alive and go back to her home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, the Rock Riders, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the Wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

The year that you were told you were born put you at age thirty-four. 

You never knew any sort of life outside the post-apocalyptic that was now Australia. You were part of a small band of bikers, the Rock Riders, that managed to find some stability in the rocky outposts of the Badlands. Food, water and guzzaline was scarce. Sun, frustration and violence were in overabundance. Still, you all managed. There was nothing more vital in this awful time and age than camaraderie, even though you regretted many of the actions you took in life in the name of camaraderie. In the name of survival, anything went.

 

 

One day, in the mid-evening, you and your men were on the look-out for stragglers of a gang that could lead you to some food for your clan.  
“Do you see anything?” Buggan asked, peering through his own binoculars.  
“No, keep looking! Something has to be out there,” you called back. “Wait!”  
There was a small dot, a caravan, out in the distance. Four cars, three bikes. It seems they spotted you before you spotted them, because they were making excellent time in your direction.  
“Oh no…”  
Whetter said your name haltingly after shifting his gaze in the direction you had it.  
“We have to move… NOW!” you shouted, running back to your bike. “The Crevice, let’s move!”

All five of you hit your bikes and sped off for safety. The damn Warboys were at it again. Under the command of Immortan Joe, those who didn’t value their lives were far more dangerous than the ones who did… and those were few and far between. 

Barren landscape whizzed by and the scent of angry engines filled your nostrils, the burning sensation getting closer with every minute. 

The Crevice was finally in sight, but you feared it would be too late. You weren’t sure what sort of modifications were made to those Citadel cars, but it wasn’t long before they caught up with your own group. All five of you were surrounded.

Two of your men died immediately from grenade sticks, the debris from the explosion threatening to blow you off your own ride.  
“Fuckin’ hell,” you muttered, glancing quickly back to see two cars right on your heels. You could jump off your car and maybe take some Warboys with you, then maybe make the run back to your home.  
Backup wasn’t coming. Not for you three.  
Poor Whetter was off his bike next, revenge from some Witnessed Warboy taking vengeance for the loss of his lancer and one of the bikers. He was a good man and you made a quick glance upward toward the sky, bidding his soul a fond farewell.  
“NO!” you screamed, watching in horror as he went under the wheel with his bike. Even through the deafening roar of the engines, you still heard Buggan’s bones crunch under the large wheels of the vehicle.  
There was a small explosion after that, his bike’s engine acting like a bomb, knocking off two of the cars that were coming in closer.

There was a small explosion after that, knocking off two of the cars that were coming in closer.  
Two cars, two bikes left for you? You didn’t stand a damn chance, that much you knew, but you were going to go out kicking and screaming.

Speaking of the bikes, they were on either side of you. Vicious kicks and jeering taunts were given to your legs. Anger overtook your systems and you gave each one a shot in the head, lack of hope be damned. When one of their bikes took out another car, hope returned. You could do this!

“Fuck off!” you shouted, digging in your back for a small grenade.

Taunts, out of your mouth, did you no good, and neither did the observation of your final attack that could rid you of the Citadel before you made it back to the Crevice. A small harpoon shot out of the remaining car and went straight through your bike and under your chassis. In a split second you were launched over the handlebars of your bike and into the course dirt that lay under you, your hand grenade lost somewhere in the dirt, the pin still in its hold.

“No,” a Warboy said as you regained your senses and looked up at your captor. “You fuck off.”

You coughed up a garden-variety of dirt before you were strapped to the back to the remaining car and driven back to the Citadel.

You had heard tales of the horrors of Immortan Joe. Of his wives.

That was a nauseating fate that you wanted to avoid, but was no unavoidable. Wife of Immortan Joe. You hated the ring of that.


	2. The Citadel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, the Rock Riders, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the Wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never done a silent-ish protagonist before. That's how Reader's going to be for a little bit anyway.

As the Warboys sang their victory song and mourned the loss of their brothers, your mind was working overtime to think of a way to escape. Maybe if you said you were infertile, you would be kicked out. Was there a garage here? Maybe you could steal a ride and bust out early. 

Then it hit you. You were older. You had scars. You weren't a virgin. Would you be killed for any of these things? Maybe it would be better to keep your mouth shut. You hadn’t said anything since you were captured. Was it best to keep it that way?

You were raised up to the center of the Citadel upon arrival. This gave you an excellent view of the goings-on of the “town”. People were diseased, missing limbs, suffering from visible and invisible injuries. There were small boys that somehow became even smaller as you were raised up with the rest of the Warboys. They looked about as close to the border between skinny and emaciated as you could reach. 

You were able to spot a woman around your age, missing an arm with a black substance smeared across her forehead, staring at you with a pained look. Was she a wife? You doubted it. She was not whole in the eyes of the men in charge here, but her outfit and otherwise healthy physical condition hinted that she had some power. 

When the two of you were finally on the same level, you could recognize her. Imperator Furiosa. She had stolen some of the women of your group moons ago with a convoy of Warboys. Your clan whispered that they were to be wives of Immortan, so few truly young and beautiful women were in this reality. One of them happened to have been your best friend. Was she alive now? You would never know. 

Recalling her pained look, you felt fury swell up inside you. One day you would get your revenge against her.

A Warboy gave you a swift kick in the back to signal you to move. You wouldn’t even give him the satisfaction of a grunt of pain.  
“She can walk, Slit,” the other one said.  
“Have to get her moving, Nux, for Joe.”  
Two young idiot boys. More pups than men. You rolled your eyes. This was going to be a short stay in the Citadel if you could manage it.

 

There was a cacophony of sound in all sides, drowning you and steadily pissing you off. You just had to go and get yourself captured in the belly of the beast. You weren’t sure whether or not it was better than Gas Town or the Bullet Farm, but you didn’t want to find out. 

The next sound you heard was a sickening wheezing. A very fat, very old man was walking up to you, surrounded by other men. 

Immortan Joe. In the flesh.

In this world, there were some people that had become legendary. Infamous. Feared. There was the Bullet Farmer. And the People Eater. Immortan Joe might have been the worst of them all.

“Who is that?” he growled, voice muffled by… whatever it was that was obscuring his face. You assumed it was related to breathing. For Immortan Joe being so old, he was still quite intimidating.

“We found her, Joe, with the biker gang of the Crevice, we presume,” said Slit. “Still looks like she has some miles in her. Maybe a new wife?”  
Joe gave you a more interested look and it made you want to vomit. “Name?”

You stayed silent. You were not going to give this man, or anyone here for that matter, the one thing you still had left in this world that was all your own.

“Name!” a large, muscled man said. This was the one that walked in with Joe. His name was not as heralded across the Badlands, but you knew him. Rictus Erectus. But even he you would not bow to.  
“Give her one,” Nux suggested. “You can’t just rough up a Wife like that, Rictus.”  
“She is not his Wife.”  
“Rictus… quiet. Very well,” Immortan Joe said. “I dub thee… Slew. We shall brand her and test her out tomorrow morning. Take her to the other wives.”  
Slew?! What a piece of shit name! You were about to say as such, but you remembered your vow of silence.

_You won’t be here for long. Just keep your sanity._

That was going to be a tall order if rape by Immortan was part of that equation.


	3. The Wives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, the Rock Riders, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the Wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

You had a pleasant introduction to the three Wives there. Toast, Splendid and Dag. They were lovely girls, but you felt so much older than them, more than merely by age alone. You might have had more in common with Miss Giddy, who was the first wife of Immortan. 

Your eyes, ever observant, took in much from what was behind the vault. Fresh water, for one thing, and you drank so copious an amount at once that you were liable to pop, all while ignoring the “grand tour” being conducted by Miss Giddy. 

It was also cool in the Wives’ area, very temperate. Green food, books, beds, even instruments to keep attention around and boredom away. Only a handful of what you saw was of any use to you, but it was more than what you thought you would see in a lifetime in the Badlands.

But a prison was a prison, even if it was furbished. You hated it. 

The poor girls that were in there weren’t quite new, as you could tell by their stretch marks, scars and brandings. You were due to receive one of the latter in the morning. Property of Immortan Joe. Fuck it.

“What’s your name?”

You looked over at Splendid, who seemed to the oldest and the de facto leader amongst the band of girls.

“Maybe she don’t talk,” Dag offered.  
“Maybe she don’t feel like talking,” Toast shrugged. “Don’t blame her for a second.”  
“Joe called her Slew,” Dag hummed. “Interesting name.”

You stayed silent through this interchange, merely staring ahead at what you were about to become. Dressed in what amounted to half bedsheets with a chastity belt.

“If you don’t want to talk to us, then you can write it down,” Splendid said, handing you a small piece of paper and pencil.

You didn’t know how to read or write. It wasn’t necessary in the life you lead. You couldn’t tell if Splendid picked up on that, but she didn’t press you to say anything to her or the other Wives.

“Come on, let’s go to your bed,” Miss Giddy said kindly, taking your hand and leading you to an alcove. “He only comes in here to impregnate you, so it’s not as bad. You get your own chastity belt to make sure it’s only him that touches you.”

 _Oh, like that’s some sort of silver lining_ , you thought miserably. You had enjoyed the equal society of the bikers. In this misogynistic one, you didn’t think you’d be able to last. The men here had used Miss Giddy’s body as a book, a Historyman, though you knew not what the tattoos read.

 

Toast came by later in the day to hand you some fresh greens and a white drink on a small wooden tray. 

You gestured toward the glass and cocked an eyebrow at her. 

“It’s mother’s milk.”

Your eyebrow stayed in its position.

“From the other women. They’re in machines that pump their breasts for the milk. It’s nutritious.”

You didn’t touch the stuff and thankfully you had the forethought to ask what it was. One of your rules was never to drink something that wasn’t clear.

Toast shrugged and left you to it, taking the glass with her. You could hear the girls whispering about you, but you couldn’t be bothered to care much.

Tomorrow was going to be a rough day. Knowing what was in store, you could barely keep down what you were eating, as clean and easy on your stomach as it was.


	4. Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, the Rock Riders, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the Wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

“Alright alright, let’s get to business,” the Organic Mechanic said, securing you properly so you could receive your branding. “Quick peek downstairs after you get your mark and then back up to bed for Joe.”

He was a disgusting man. Bad teeth, crude way of speaking, careless in his doctoring and generally running a dirty operation all around.

Warboys were walking around the caverns where the Mechanic operated. You saw otherwise healthy men - no women, oddly enough - sitting in metal cages hanging like stalactites. Some stayed to watch while little pups helped out by stoking flames or reordering equipment. 

You grunted as you were chained up. Not even given a painkiller for the red hot metal. No, you supposed you couldn’t be that lucky. Working your shoulders and tongue, you dragged up your goggles that hung around your neck and bit down on the leather strap before the pain came.

And it did. In all the years you had been alive, nothing compared to having your flesh seared by Joe’s logo. You didn’t cry out in pain, though your limbs fought against the press of the metal. The pungent scent of your own burning skin filled your nostrils. 

Soon enough the metal was removed and a cool cloth came resting against it, but this only made it hurt all the more. Your nerves were on fire and the water only helped remind you of that.  
Branded. You were property.

Your vaginal examination was swift, which you were thankful for. It seemed the men of this society could not tell a virgin apart from a woman who hadn’t had sex with a man in years. Did they not know that a woman couldn’t become or stay “loose”? You rolled your eyes and refused to answer any sort of question about your sexual history. You were more worried about catching something off Joe’s diseased dick.

You were led back up to the sanctuary with the three Wives and given your new garments to wear.

The only possession you had left, your goggles, were stored in a secure location within the compound, Miss Giddy promising that no one would take them. Did you have a use for them anymore? You supposed not. But they were yours and you’d be damned if you were going to let anyone take it. You still had your true name. That would stay with you.

“Just… lie back and think of something else when he touches you,” Dag offered, patting you on the back when you got word Joe was heading upstairs. 

You nodded. If Joe wanted anything out of you other than lying still, he would be in for a rude awakening.

However, that’s not quite what happened. Joe came in, pointed at you, pointed at an empty bed and followed you in. His armor came off and your legs were parted. He lasted roughly two minutes before he finished, afterwards taking several deep breaths and exiting. 

You felt disgusted, not with yourself but with the situation that was out of your control, but acknowledged it could be worse. He could be young and in shape. But he wasn’t. He was just a diseased old man playing himself up to be a god among mortals. 

Still, rape was rape and you wished that you could kill the Immortan before you left for good. 

 

“He only values boys,” Toast said later on over dinner. “Girls are turned into low-class breeders when they come of age.”  
“Before they come of age, he just lets them do what they want as long as they stay out of his way. But that doesn’t happen often,” Splendid added. “Usually only boys come out for whatever reason. You only get a limited number of chances to do that. Three strikes and you’re out.”

The women sighed at this truth, knowing a handful of Wives that could only produce daughters, or couldn’t produce anything. It seemed that your value as a woman was strictly limited to whether or not you could birth a male. Sickening.

“What did you do before you were captured?” Dag asked. You grunted. “Can you speak?”  
You nodded, not wanting to speak to anyone at the moment. It was too much for you. It wasn’t the fault of the women, you acknowledged, but rather just the place they were kept overwhelming your senses.  
“Why don’t you speak to us? We’re going to be like sisters, you and us,” Toast agreed.  
“Not your fault,” you mumbled, flipping over a vegetable. “Just don’t feel like talkin’.”  
“Come on, Slew,” Miss Giddy encouraged tenderly, not wavering at the glare you gave her, nor did she flinch like the other Wives when you slammed your fist upon the table.  
“My name is _not_ Slew and never will be. Never.”  
“Then what is it?”  
You gave a heavy sigh, rubbed your eyes and looked at all of the women. “I’m only going to give this backstory once.”

So you went. Your name, what you did to stay alive, how many men and women you had murdered, the different towns you had seen, how you lost your parents and how you found a new clan, how two loves of your lives were taken from you by Joe’s lackeys. You didn’t leave anything untold and you certainly didn’t censor yourself about how rotten it was to be a Wife of the Immortan Joe.

“We aren’t things,” Splendid agreed. “But until we have a plan, we don’t have much of a choice.”  
“Maybe if I’m barren, Joe will just kick me out. I can walk back to the Crevice if I can just get free,” you considered.  
“Or he’ll kill you,” Miss Giddy replied, standing to collect the plates.

You blanched. You hadn’t properly reviewed that end, only considered it.

That night, you stared up at the ceiling, hoping your period would come soon and tell you that Joe failed in his first attempt to impregnate you. There were two distinct paths with their advantages and disadvantages. 

Being a Wife meant that you had a place to stay, you were free from hunger and thirst, and you didn’t have to toil away in the hot sun. However, you were raped and were going to continue to be, your usefulness depended on the sex of your offspring and you were likely to be tossed out when your time of the month stopped for good. When the children stopped, or never began, would it mean your own sticky end?

Still, what _was_ a better end? A sex slave and a baby factory… or infertile and dead and free?


	5. Demotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, the Rock Riders, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the Wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

“No child AGAIN?!” Immortan Joe thundered after a full year of trying to impregnate you. By this time, there was a new Wife, red-haired Capable. She was very nice and she took to you quickly.  
“Maybe it’s your fault,” Miss Giddy snarled in her take-no-shit tone. “At your age, you’ll be shooting blanks for sure.”  
“Miss Giddy, cease your ramblings before I end you.”  
“You wouldn’t have the guts!”  
Immortan Joe wisely ignored the old woman, who made you inwardly smirk, before focusing his attention back on you. “I’ve wasted enough time with you.”  
“Then kick me out,” you said.  
Immortan’s eyebrows shot up. “You can speak!”  
You grunted in reply.

This only made him grow angrier and he smacked you upside the head with his walking staff. You felt a bit of blood trick down your jawline, but you stood firm and looked him straight in the eye. He wasn’t as strong as he thought he was and that made you chuckle.

“Death, then. Does that amuse you, Slew?” Joe asked. It was his turn to chuckle at the glint of recognition in your eyes that he wasn’t taunting.  
“Joe, don’t kill her,” Splendid pleaded upon the realization that the situation was very serious. You were in over your head and you lacked the womanly softness to make men change their minds.  
“And why, Splendid, should I not? She has mocked me openly.”  
“Because that would be cruel.”  
“I am a cruel man.” Joe now turned to his favorite Wife and studied her. “You know this.”  
“But she’s still useful,” Toast piped up, stepping forward.  
“She cannot bear sons… or even daughters.”  
“But she’s got blood, doesn’t she?” she countered.  
“If she’s a universal donor, she could be a blood bag. I would prefer the blood of a lady if something were to happen to me while giving you a son,” Dag added.  
“I think it’s a good idea,” Capable agreed.  
Miss Giddy, understanding that this was your only way to survive, and perhaps still escape on your own terms, nodded. “Use your bloody head, Joe.”

Immorton Joe stood for a moment, stone still and apparently letting the thought of having you sit in an iron cage for the rest of your days cook in his mind. In fact, everyone in the room was still. Folks lived and died by Joe’s word. Even if you thought yourself above it, there was no denying the fact that, at the moment, you were not.

“Very well. A special blood bag. Slew. Dress to your station and go down where you belong.”

With that, he left the Wives behind. You turned to the other Wives, biting your lip in worry. It was so easy to sense your discomfort that all the women gathered you into a hug. Racking your brain, you tried to recall such a sensation before and failed to recall anything. Hugs like this were nice and you hadn’t had them outside of a handful of times with your deceased loves.

You supposed that if you were going to become a blood bank, it wouldn’t be so bad if it was just for the Wives. 

Putting on your scouting gear, the exact outfit you were captured in down to the goggles, you steeled your nerves and headed down to the caves to live your fate as a blood bag of the Wives of Immortan Joe.  
At least, of course, until you found out a way to escape and make a bee line for the Crevice.

You idly wondered if your friends (comrades?) were worried about you or if they could see Joe’s caravan steal you away from them. They weren’t one to mount a rescue force, so it was likely all the bikers did was mourn you. If anyone believed you to be alive, then maybe it was only the mere hope that you would make it back to them alive.


	6. The New Bloodbag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

“Well, well, well,” the Organic Mechanic snorted, staring at the way your blood congealed with his chemicals. “Ain’t you the lucky one? Type O. That makes you, ma’am, a universal donor!”

You cocked an eyebrow at him, feeling uneasy at the sudden appearance of the ghastly ghostly Warboys on either side of you, chains in their hands. 

“It means, silent Slew, we have to mark you up… for organizational purposes, of course,” he added, getting his tattoo kit onto a flat rock face. “You don’t have any ink?”

You really started putting up a fight at that, grunting and throwing punches at any patch of white skin in your eyesight, grabbing their chains for your own self-defense. 

A break for it.

You had to make a break for it.

 

You were faster than you used to be thanks to a steady, healthy stream of food from Immortan Joe’s private supply of greens and Aquacola. This gave you added strength with which to bash the heads in of several of Joe’s lackeys before tearing down the cavernous halls of the Citadel. 

Though being a Wife meant that you weren’t exactly intimate with the inner workings or inner anything of your home, you were certain which way was out. All you had to do was make it to the platform that brought the cars up and down into the mouth of the mountain. Surely there would be something for you to latch onto.

“Which way, which way…” you muttered to yourself as you bounced off wall in an effort to keep up your speed. 

Warboys were on your tail and were certainly close to nabbing you at times, but you kept up your momentum to slide between legs, leap over pits and literally pile drive through a particularly sickly Warboy who went by the name of Nux.

It was his lancer, however, that finally got the best of you.

 

You could see the light, so close. So nerve-wracking in its nearness.

In a gasp of joy, you put on your blinders and paid no mind to your peripheral vision. Hot, muggy, diseased air never meant more to you as it did just then. It would be a long hike, one of possibly avoiding the detection of Joe’s riders, but you didn’t care. Anything to get back to the Crevice.

A single thought of the Wives entered your mind and how they bargained for your life against the wishes of Immortan Joe. They surely wouldn’t be punished for your escape, but it seemed a shame that their efforts were all for nothing.

At least you wanted that to be the case.

Imagine your surprise when a muscled Warboy caught you by your side and tackled you to the ground. You hit the rocky surface hard, knocking the wind out of your as Slit put you on your stomach and sat on your back.

“Got her! She almost got out!” he hollered into the Citadel as he sat on you.  
“Get off me, you wastrel!” you spat back as soon as you could breathe.  
“Come on, that ain’t sporting of you. You did almost get out,” he replied, cracking his knuckles. “Good job.”  
Slit gave your back - once he finally moved his ass off of it - a firm pat before you were collected and sent back down to the chambers.

 

“Now then, have we got that out of our system?” the Organic Mechanic asked, only glancing up at you, paying no mind to your animalistic growls and grunts.

The other bloodbags from their nests silently watched you get held down, chained up and tattooed.

It hurt - not as much as the branding, but hurt. You hoped that your back wouldn’t become infected and you felt the dried blood of the etchings stick to your shirt as you were thrown up into the cages.

Your cellmates gave you singular glances before returning their own focuses to various rock faces, the ground, the workings of the inner chambers of the Citadel, or the faint glimpses of blue sky above. Anywhere but at each other.

You took the cue, not wanting to talk to anyone else. What else had you left in the world? Your real name and a few physical possessions that weren’t worth much in the first place, especially not as a bloodbag.

What more could be taken from you? You lost your clan, your bike, your freedom… not to mention soon your blood. 

You had to keep strong or soon you would lose your mind.


	7. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

There was a clockwork rotation of Wives having their monthly bleedings. Rictus thought it a marvelous idea to have your own blood be transfused to them in order to keep their energy up, seeing as how their life force was leaking out of them against their will.

Joe agreed and soon you were in the Wives’ room more often than not with a needle and tube sticking out of your forearm. 

Miss Kitty, thankfully, had more sense and unhooked you when the Warboys left and rehooked you after an arbitrary amount of time had passed. You were sure that they didn’t notice a thing, but you feigned extreme fatigue each time you were to be brought back to your cage. You wished you could look gaunter and be more convincing. However, it seemed that no one, not even Joe, cared much. Not even for your own bleeding, which the Wives and Miss Kitty kept track of for your own benefit.

You were passed food and water by the Wives and you kept them comprised of the life of bloodbags in the caverns of the Citadel.

This was the routine for several years. The sisterhood grew again when a final – this one virginal, still – Wife was brought in from parts unknown. Cheedo the Fragile, as she was named for her innocence of Joe’s patriarchal hell, took to you immediately. 

You were older than the rest of the Wives, but not old enough to be a mothering figure. An older sister, a mentor, someone who had known hell and who was currently living it. She and the others soaked up the knowledge of life beyond the walls of the Citadel.

“We want to leave,” Angharad said suddenly over lunch one day. 

She was heavily pregnant while stating this and, coincidentally, Dag had just discovered her conceiving of her first child from Joe. 

Dag, at the moment, had actually needed your blood, not from the pregnancy, but rather due to a large scrape to her arm she had been dealt over a trip and fall. That was what Joe had said, at any rate. Blood from the Universal Donor to protect his property. So, the two of you were strung up together nearby and looked up expectantly at Angharad’s declaration.

“Are you… asking my help or just giving me some news pointer?” you replied, cracking your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Well, we think you would be an excellent guide, but we need hope and someone higher in ranks. We need the Green Place,” Angharad sighed. “And we already have Furiosa to do that. We've been planning this for awhile now as you were stuck up in the cages.”

Your heart faint stopped beating at that name. Furiosa. Your distress at hearing that name was replaced with boiling anger.

“And why, tell and pray, would you need her help? Didn’t she lead battalions and war rigs in order to find beauties like you for Joe?” you spat back.  
“Redemption,” Toast muttered. “She wants redemption. And we trust her.”

You could not forgive Furiosa for what she had done to you, twice over. The sight of her with her metal arm and grime-covered forehead caused you to crave revenge and she set you on edge like the taste of blood in one’s mouth. The girls, of course, did not know this and you couldn't blame them for leaping at a chance to escape.

“Fine. If you trust her… fine. And how is this escape going to go?”  
“Joe is going to have a small convoy go to Gas Town and the Bullet Farm on a supply run sooner or later. We sneak into the War Rig. Furiosa takes the Rig off the course with said convoy. They take out the Buzzards that may come. Those that survive will be taken out by the Badlands and their storms."  
“The Badlands? Are you sure?”  
“Yeah, from there we’ll dr-”  
“I have to come,” you interrupted, moving to stand before being pulled back down by Dag, who was still attached to you and not eager for sudden movements.  
“Why? You can’t, you’re stuck here,” Capable said, looking at the triumph on your face.  
“The Badlands are my home. That’s where the Crevice is.”  
“The Crevice? That’s the next stop!” Cheedo said with a bright smile. “If we can sneak you in to the Rig as well, we can just drop you off.”  
“Cheedo, we can’t. The bikers there are expecting Furiosa alone.”  
“If she explains that her guest is a member of their group, then it can only go easier, Capable.”  
“Besides, Joe will get suspicious if she goes, too,” Miss Kitty pointed out. “Our bloodbag has to stay put. Besides that, there’s not much room in the bunker of the Rig for that many women.”

Though you were quite jealous that the Wives plus Furiosa got to escape the Citadel, there was no use in telling them about your bitterness. It was their lives, their youth, their goodness. You just wanted to get back to the Crevice. Maybe the Furiosa would tell them about you being stuck here and they would stage a rescue mission during the night.

But that was asking a lot out of them. They would do anything for gas and not much else for a member lost to Joe. She had seen that firsthand. Her bikers were simply either too few in number or lacking in proper weaponry and motors. Not enough to take on Joe and his army. And that wasn’t including the Bullet Farmer or the People Eater, who were known to keep to themselves unless Joe called upon them. Which would mean that there would be battalions behind them almost immediately. 

Did Furiosa know that or was she just hoping for the best?

Regardless, if you would have kept to yourself and didn’t stray so far away from base, maybe your friends would still be alive and you would be free on your bike. It had been too long since you felt a proper chassis beneath you. Would you ever again? That hope died little by little as the sun continued its passes over the horizon.


	8. Max

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm only making Max give his name because it would be hell to write otherwise. I'd be calling him Blood Bag or The Man or whatever. Our Reader didn't necessarily earn it, but she will in the end. Probably.

You deigned not to share many more words with the Wives before heading back to your suspended cage.

It was a good thing you arrived when you did. It wasn’t often that the Warboys captured stragglers for their private blood supply. This one looked particularly feral, much more than the others before him.

A universal donor as well? Interesting.

He was quite handsome from what you could squint. And athletic as well. You admired him as he ripped himself from the hold of particularly strong Warboys after his tattoos finished, as you wished you could have done when you saw the brander. That area of your neck itched whenever the stench of hot metal filled the stagnant air of the caverns. 

There he went, the new bloodbag, down the halls of the cavern.

“I hope you make it,” you muttered to yourself. “And I hope you have better luck than I did.”

It wasn’t more than a half-hour later that you saw this new man dragged back in (albeit after a bruising fight) and stuffed into a cage. He avoided a branding because he was more trouble than he was worth. That made you smile.

You tried to catch his eye, but it seemed that he was content on boring holes into the rocky sides of the Citadel’s inner sanctum. There wasn’t anything to throw at him and you were quite sure that he was purposefully ignoring you. That was rather rude, you thought, but losing your freedom and your blood and your car would certainly do a number on anyone. It had been the case for yourself, after all.

After one week, he would at least look at you. It was that inch that you took for kilometers, greeting him and asking about his car or his health. He wouldn’t respond, but at least he would look at you.

That was the most talking, or at the very least the most base human interaction, that you had ever done in the caverns, as noted by the sickly Warboy Nux below you. He seemed to have gotten over you pile-driving him to the ground, which was fine. He wasn’t as bad as compared to his lancer, even if their fanatic behavior for the Immortan was comparable. 

Slit the lancer, unfailingly, would make mention of how he wished he could bring you down and show you ‘round the Citadel, and, unfailingly, would get an obscene gesture from you in return. Normally, his response would either be a bark of laughter or a “don’t tempt me, bird”. 

You needed real human contact, by Warboy or by this man. You needed his name. Surely you would go mad without it.

“Listen,” you whispered to the man after he was brought back up from a refueling of Nux’s life source. “I promise that I won’t talk to you for a whole week if you tell me your name.”

What else did you have to bargain with? You only had your precious goggles left in this world. He simply could not have them.

“Make it two,” he grunted quietly, his animalistic stare now fully on you and holding.  
“Deal.” You gave your own after the first three days. “Two weeks’ silence from me.” That wouldn’t be too difficult for you, seeing how that was your modus operandi for so long as a Wife, but he seemed to think it would be, as he only heard unending chirping out of your mouth, though at least it was quiet chirping. “Your name?”  
“Max. Now shut it.”

Max. Your fellow bloodbag was Max.


	9. Along for the Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

Cheedo was the one to tell you that they were due to leave with Furiosa the following day. Before the next supply run, under the cover of night their Imperator would sneak them onto the War Rig before the Produce, the Aquacola and the Mother’s Milk were loaded on. 

You wished her the best, not knowing what else to say. What else could you say? No Wife in Joe’s prison deserved it. But you couldn’t help but wonder if such a Green Place that Furiosa spoke of truly existed. Not in today’s time. You had traveled many miles on your bike and never encountered a single hint of a paradise hidden between the sand dunes and dirt mounds that populated your life.

Nothing could grow anymore except for what Joe managed to produce on his plateaus. 

 

It was a mystery to you when the realization would dawn on Joe that his Wives were gone. When you were a Wife, he visited his breeders behind the vault at least four times a week. Besides that, he had his sons constantly watching the Fury Road. Surely she didn’t think she would make it far. 

Just as you thought, it didn’t take very long for the excitement of the Imperator gone rogue to reach the hold of the bloodbags. You watched Max hang upside down for Nux’s fuel while Warboys ran in and exposited the current predicament. 

“Poor Nux, always wanting to prove himself,” you muttered quietly, watching he and Slit have a masculinity showdown. 

You never had so much excitement in your short few years in the Citadel and you certainly didn’t want it to end. All the strongest, most capable Warboys were being sent off with Joe’s fleet to bring back the Wives. That left only the little pups and the Warboys sicker than Nux. 

That made you sit up in your cage and grip its bars. You could escape yourself! Yes!!!

“All I would have to do is convince one of the bastards to let me down. I could push past them, find a bike and hitch a ride out!”

You quieted yourself down when Nux made the crazy suggestion to strap poor Max to his ride for a continuous supply of blood. The Organic Mechanic took to it a little too well for your liking.

“It would be the best for his health after all,” he said, scratching at his hairy stomach.  
“Then we might as well take the other one,” Slit said, looking up at you with a grin. “She could stick with me. I mean, if Furiosa hurt the Wives, wouldn’t Joe want their personal bloodbag on the Fury Road, close at hand?”  
“Another great point!” the Organic Mechanic chuckled, nudging a few Warboys. “Bring down the other universal donor. And be gentle about it. It’s for Joe’s prized breeders.”

There was a beat. Then the remaining men, even Max, raised their eyebrows at your torrid language being spewed at them from above. 

“CONFUCAMUS!” you shrieked, kicking at your handlers. Strapped to a fucking car! Like hell! You knew what was out there in the wastelands! Death by car a dozen different ways, especially considering how the Warboys drove. And you were to be strapped in with Slit? 

You were tied up and even gagged before you could say much more.


	10. Crash and Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

Unceremoniously you were tossed in the small cradle of Nux’s vehicle. It was sort of like a chariot, you supposed, the way Slit stood firm and held on to the rails on either side of him.

“She would make a good pair with his other one,” the Organic Mechanic noted, giving Max a good kick in the leg as he was chained and connected to Nux. He earned a grunt in return. “Both raging ferals, around the same age, universal donors… but what can you do?”  
With that, he climbed into Joe’s car.

“Comfy, bloodbag?” he asked you with that maniacal but charismatic grin.

You only had your hands bound. So not strapped. Meaning you could technically jump out whenever you wanted, but Slit kept you in until the car started moving at higher and higher speeds. For your own safety you held onto the metal of your new cage and braced yourself in as best you could. 

You selfishly hoped the ride would be short, but that would mean the Wives would be caught and brought back. Furiosa would undoubtedly be killed. A small rip of pleasure tore through your systems as you rattled to life from your new cage’s vibrations. That would be wonderful revenge for the respective killing and kidnapping of your lovers.

However, it quickly died down when you considered that the Wives would have every other escape opportunity quashed if Furiosa wasn’t successful.

“Make it out… for the Wives,” you whispered, but even you yourself couldn’t hear this small plea.

There was no way out for you, however, if the Wives weren’t brought back. Joe would keep his cavalry on the road indefinitely until his possessions were back in the Citadel.  
If you could just find an opportune moment to abandon ship, then you could walk back home, the Crevice, and get your rope shackles off in that order. 

“There she is, Nux!” Slit shouted, pounding at the hood of the car. “Fang it! Fang it!”

You hazarded a glance over to see the War Rig within sight of the entire party. Nux found his Valhalla moment and sped forward.

Readjusting and repropping yourself, you watched with fear as Nux’s skilled but reckless navigating put you right up against the wheels of the Rig. A roar of the Rig’s horn kept your attention on it, and a small gasp escaped from you as you espied Splendid crawling into a small slat into the driver’s carriage.

The escape attempt was working! All pettiness toward Furiosa that had simmered for so long buried itself deep. This mission couldn’t fail now, but what could you do to help? You could try to kick Slit off the car, but that wouldn’t do too much, all things considered. There would be no power to your kicks and you weren’t strapped onto anything to catch yourself if your movements were overly erratic.

Soon the Buzzards, the utter bastards to anyone on the Fury Road, were descending upon your fleet, buzzsaws threatening life and limb of all who dared (and who didn’t have a choice, like you and Max) to come within spitting distance of it. You violently threw your forearm over your eyes to shield from the sparks flying off the metal clashing against metal.

Poor Max almost was bisected by the whirring blades, but luckily for him and for you, other Warboys took out the hydraulics to power down the imminent threat. 

Violently you were throttled around in your small carriage, knocking against the legs of Slit, who had Valhalla in his eyes and throat. The rest of the War Party was closing in, Furiosa all but caught. The Wives all but back in their cage with no future hope of escaping.

Coughing, you gripped a metal bar and hoisted yourself up a bit. You had to see what was ahead, if not the end of the Fury Road for Furiosa and her party of Wives. 

Oh… no…

Not a sandstorm. You couldn’t survive one out in the open. Your whole life in the Crevice told you that this particular force of nature took and never gave. There was nothing left on earth worth risking to be out during one. Not without a closed in car like Nux had. Like Furiosa had. 

Could you talk sense into Slit, who could get his driver to turn around? You did your best to adjust your gag, just a simple cloth, to move to your throat. 

“Stop, damn you!” you shouted, giving Slit a good kick in the leg. “That thing is going to kill us!”

He didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care.

“Fang it!” he shouted, pounding the roof of the car.

On they kept driving, even with a blown out tire courtesy of a bump from the War Rig. Your teeth rattled enough to miss the reason why Slit was venturing toward the front of the car where Max was. You took the time to put your goggles on, your one bit of protection in the magnetic storm that was more than likely going to be your burial ground. A loud thud above you brought your gaze up and through dusty lenses you saw the eyes of Max staring back at you. 

A hard bump took Slit over the two of you and straight off the edge of the car, dangling and supported only by the chain of Max’s bloodline and mask. Finally, you had enough space to stand properly, though your vision was obscured. Max slid in next to you and began delivering vicious kicks to Slit’s face. You took the hint and assisted, Max only losing a boot in the process.

Max jumped on the roof of the car to dive in through the open hatch, but it was quickly shut by Nux. Not two seconds later did the full brunt of the sandstorm hit. It felt like you were being pelted with needles while your lungs gathered a fine coating of dust and debris. You tugged your collar up in a vain attempt to block out most of the sand, a task most difficult and ultimately futile considering your bonds around your wrists.  
Seeing Max struggle, you tugged the front of his shirt and pulled him close to the rearview mirror for some semblance of protection against the elements. 

Though you couldn’t confirm it was out of what was left of his humanity or him just trying to get a better grip to stay on his ride, but Max threw out an arm behind you to grip the support beams on your outer side. Whichever it was, both of you were as secure as was possible in the elements.

And there you two were, crouched, huddled, shielding each other from the oncoming danger. On Nux went unto the breach, despite his fellow War Boys being tossed around in the storm as if they were nothing more than strips of cloth in a mild breeze.

There was, you admitted to yourself, a certain beauty in their demise, the way their bodies floated into the sky, helplessly reaching for a tether where there was nothing but tortuous atmosphere. A body flew up over you and Max, screaming all the while. Valhalla? Certainly any place was better than the Hell that was the present.

A sudden burst of acceleration almost caused you to lose your balance as Nux headed straight for the War Rig. Peering through the rearview, you and Max saw Nux releasing his guzzoline into the floor of his car, crowing about Valhalla.

It was when he turned around and you saw, even through your dirtied goggles, a crazed look, that you knew what was coming next. Max did, too.

“Witness me, bloodbags!” Nux shouted, spraying chrome in his teeth. “Witness!”

At once you and Max began pounding at the glass of the rearview, stopping the suicide bombing before it started. The window broke quick from the tandem effort, though Max blocked the opening with his stocky frame. A bright light from inside told you that the flare was lit. 

Perhaps due to the tension from the storm and the haphazard way the vehicle was constructed, but Nux’s ride fell apart at the seams. You ducked with enough agility to dodge the roof of the car peeling itself from the body.

You turned to see the War Rig mere feet behind you. Opening your mouth to scream, Max’s elbow caught you in the jaw as he tried to wrestle the flare from Nux. The momentary distraction caused the Warboy to slam both feet on the brakes either in an attempt to grasp control or as a final stand to stop the War Rig. Contact was made in a split second in a mind-numbing sound of metal on metal.

Max was attached to Nux, who was in turn attached to the car. You, however, couldn’t grab hold of much more than air. Much like the War Boys you saw reach their Valhalla, you had a similar, if not life-ending, fate. You flew fifty meters away to the right from the path of the soon-to-be-totaled car. 

The car was flung to the right as well, like it stood a chance, as the War Rig powered through. Max and Nux were flung as well, rolling and bouncing and crashing until out of sight. Or it could have kept going. You blacked out before you could get confirmation it stopped. Or that Max was still breathing when it did.


	11. A Minor Setback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

You woke up to a boiling sun above your head and a thick layer of dirt covering you from head to toe. A slow diagnostics told you that, miraculously, you suffered nothing broken, sprained, out of place or otherwise missing. Save for some soreness, you could have been much worse for wear.

Though you felt that arms were still bound, that could be fixed. Coughing hard to hack up a garden variety of soil samples, you pulled your goggles down and got a good look at your surroundings.

You couldn’t hear anything except your own breathing. The envoys, regardless of their driver, were gone. Your horizons were almost as empty, only taking in wreckage from the previous night’s exploits. If one of those piles had some jagged metal, you could easily cut through your rope bonds. Perhaps the Crevice was close and you could simply walk back. If Joe had called off his war party due to the raging storm, then you wouldn’t have any sort of trouble meeting up with you. It had been a long time since you could say that, you acknowledged.

 

Without wasting time, you made your way to the only wreckage within your sights. Sighing deeply as you looked about the wreckage, you saw Max’s body lying not far from what was left of Nux’s car, its driver splayed out in its interior, also looking quite dead. 

Max’s head was buried in a small mound of dirt and you couldn’t gather if his back was moving to indicate oxygen flow. Surely he couldn’t have survived being chained to a car that careened with the War Rig. No one was that immortal. 

Max was dead. It depressed you a shocking amount that the one person (well… man, anyway and with that thought you hoped the Wives were okay) you managed to connect with while being a bloodbag was no longer on this earth. Pity.

But you didn’t dwell on it for long. Finding a shard of metal that was stable enough to take a few kicks and still stand upright, you began sawing at your rope bonds. 

“Come on, come on, come on,” you muttered under your breath, making very little headway. A few strands of the thick bonds started fraying, but not to your satisfaction. What you could use was some nourishment or at least some water to bring life back to your lungs. Where you would find this water was anyone’s guess, yours being not until you reached your Crevice.

You were halfway through your bond when what you thought to be Max’s corpse sprung out from his shallow grave, whipping around and trying to clear the dirt from his eyes. Oh, so he was alive. A spare second to watch Max unhook his needle and tube from his flesh was all you gave before you got back to sawing off your ropes. 

The man let out a series of grunts and you heard chains rattle and car doors crunch behind you. Ah, trying to separate himself from the dead Warboy? Easier said than done, my dear Max, you thought. On you went with your sawing until you finally cut through the rope.

“Ah!” you laughed, tossing your damnable bonds onto the sand. Your wrists were chaffed and sore, but at least they were free. The rope, slowly being covered with dirt and sand from the caress of a gentle breeze, called to you. Maybe you could find a use for it later. It was soon tied together and thrown across your body.

Max had made some headway in freeing himself from Nux. The Warboy was now out of his car and had a gun to his wrist. Unfortunately, a small discharge meant that the weapon didn’t survive the storm.   
Not wanting to watch Max’s desperate move of gnawing the limb free, you looked around the vast expanse of the Wasteland. Nothing as far as the eye could… the Rig?

“Hey,” you muttered, nudging Max. All you got was a grunt in response. He followed your pointed finger to the War Rig, maybe a hundred yards or so out. There you could find the Wives, some water and food and your ride to the Crevice. 

But why alert Max? He wasn’t exactly on your priority list and he didn’t know of the Wives and their plot to escape. You reasoned that it was better sticking with someone than going it alone. After all, Max didn’t deserve to have a corpse chained to him until what connected them rusted off. And he saved you from spilling off Nux’s car into oncoming war parties. You at least owed him to be burden free before letting him off into the world.

Taking the car door Nux was still attached to, Max carried the Warboy on his shoulders, gun in hand, while the two of you headed to the War Rig for better options.


	12. The Party is Formed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were part of a biker gang, a utilitarian society doing its best to survive in the wasteland you called home. Then the Warboys found you and brought you to the Citadel.  
> Immortan Joe had a three-strike rule. Three chances to produce a son.  
> Whether it was a blessing or a curse, you bore nothing. However, there was still a use for you. A special bloodbag for the wives.  
> Was it better than a sharp stick in the eye? You supposed so.
> 
> After a long time being strung up in cages, you had a new bloodbag put in a cage next to yours. "A universal donor".

The walk to the War Rig was silent. Each step was delicate, a notable detachment from the fierce image the both of you inhabited at that moment. Max held up a gun as he gingerly stepped closer to the Rig, you not far behind. Of course, you knew there was nothing to fear (except, maybe, for Furiosa if she was given the chance to be unleashed). But Max didn’t seem to be in the talking mood, even more than you determined to be his normal demeanor. So you kept your mouth shut when Max gave you the signal to stay on the front bumper of the Rig and hand over the car door. Were you backup or merely in the way? 

Whichever it was, you leaned back and scanned the horizon while Max got the attention of the Wives and Furiosa. While Max made various grunts and a demand for water, you cleaned your fingernails. While Furiosa howled and presumably began attacking your fellow bloodbag, you took the time to have a delicious stretch or two. A new, male noise piqued your interest enough to finally emerge from your hiding place to find Nux decidedly not dead and in part of a four-way battle for a gun currently in Max’s possession. Seeing the water spigot in no one’s grip and its rare contents spilling onto the desert floor, you found your priority.

“It’s you! You’re here!” a Wife, Toast, gasped. She nudged the other Wives, who took their own attention of Max, Furiosa and Nux to signal their own joy to find their friend in their presence.

You gave them each a nod before having your own fill of fresh water. Not wanting to be wasteful, you also cranked it off. “Lucky me. I take it the escape is going well?”

Three pops sounded.

“Guess not.”

Nux, however, was overjoyed that the escape attempt had been seemingly foiled.   
“Two bloodbags and the Wives alive! Joe will shred Furiosa! Shred her!”  
“What do you think you’ll get, a prize?” you spat at him.  
He didn’t seem to hear you. “We can ask for anything! I want to drive the War Rig. What about you two?”  
“That’s my jacket!” Max growled, ripping one of his few prized possessions from Nux’s stringy body.  
“You can ask for more than a jacket…”

A solid punch to the gut was Nux’s answer, knocking the boy out cold.

“I just want to go home,” you shrugged, cocking an eyebrow as Max commandeered the Rig sans any of the women. “And I’m not about to walk.” 

Splendid attempted to get into the Rig, only to have another shot ring out, the ricocheting bullet slicing open her leg, not enough to be a flesh wound, but enough for it to trickle.

“We are going to the green place of the many mothers,” the heavily pregnant woman whispered as Max rolled the vehicle forward.

Furiosa, oddly, did not seem terribly put out by this. Frustrated, perhaps, but not running after it. 

“Now what?” you asked as she came beside you.   
The Imperator looked at you before glancing at the young Wives. “How does it feel?”  
“It hurts!” Splendid replied disaffectedly, as if such a thing didn’t need stating.  
“Out here, everything hurts. You wanna get through this? Do as I say. Now pick up what you can and run.”

You already had what you needed – your rope. The other girls grabbed the bolt cutters, a spare chain and some cloth and followed you and Furiosa to the Rig.

It would take a miracle to catch up to that machine, but it seemed that miracles in the Wasteland weren’t terribly uncommon because the Rig was slowing down. You could hear Max’s grunts of frustration. When your new party finally caught up to the stationary Rig, it took only some small persuading by its owner to have Max scoot aside and join the women on their journey. 

There wasn’t much room for you on a seat, so you settled for lying on the floor in front of the feet of Splendid, Toast, Cheeto, Dag and Capable. Max turned in his seat to watch you get as comfortable as you could.  
“Like what you see, do you?” you muttered, closing your eyes. You didn’t open them up to see if he had turned back around.

You liked to think, years later, that Max needed some confirmation that his fellow Bloodbag wasn’t too upset about getting left behind. You weren’t; you were much too close to home to care. The women would have their green place and Max would have his… freedom. What you needed was a bike between your legs and to leave the world that Immortan Joe had built for himself. If being in this caravan of misfits was what you had to endure for your wants to be met, then so be it. 

Your mind was kept on Furiosa, though. A good swipe or two during that fight would have been relished for a good revenge. One man killed, one woman kidnapped, and it was all on Furiosa’s shoulders. But you bit it down. The other women deserved better. On the other hand, you would be damned if your pain would go ignored. Bide your time, you would.

Sleep came quick for you, as even a constantly vibrating metal floor and pokes from toes was luxury compared to a cage.


End file.
